


Bird Set Free

by ExpressAndAdmirable



Series: The Heroes of Light [21]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Final Fantasy I
Genre: Backstory, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Recovery, Self-Reflection, The Jaxa Cycle, Tiefling, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpressAndAdmirable/pseuds/ExpressAndAdmirable
Summary: Lux recovers from hitting rock bottom.





	Bird Set Free

The first few days passed in a numb, grey haze. Even the weather had obliged, pelting down freezing rain for an entire week and remaining cloudy and cold for nearly another month. The celestial cooperation was comforting, in a way. There was something self-indulgently poetic about imagining the state of her heart and mind reflected in the seemingly endless winter. Stupid metaphors.

She slept a lot. She ate as much as she needed, though she rarely tasted it. She got high. She lay on her bed, strumming listlessly on her bouzouki, missing her oud. She puttered about the flat above the shop. She sat with her mother by the fire in the evenings, saying little but grateful for the company. She cried.

It all felt exquisitely pathetic. She had no-one to blame but herself.

Part of her, the logical part that understood the insidious subtleties of manipulation, knew that wasn’t true. Part of her knew it wasn’t her fault. It turned out, however, that admitting she had been controlled and her trust exploited did not feel any better than berating herself for bad decisions. She still felt as if she had allowed it to happen. She looked in the mirror and saw only weakness and gullibility in her reflection. She hated it.

But time is as kind as it is cruel, and as it passed, the sharpest of the memories began to fade. Looking at the pots of makeup on her dresser no longer conjured a deluge of cruel words in her mind, though she could not yet bring herself to wear it. She no longer started when she heard the light clink of her mother’s metal bracelets or the particular rustle of one of her skirts. The smell of hyacinths, so much like perfume, no longer turned her stomach. Piece by piece, she reclaimed her senses.

When the weather warmed, she ventured into the streets to play her violin for passersby. She chose new preferred busking spots, the old ones still tainted and unwelcoming. The new surroundings felt safer, and when she played, she could feel her heart returning to the music. She had not written anything new in months, but the people who paused to throw coins in her basket did not seem to mind. She remembered how much she loved to play. Someday she hoped to remember how much she loved to sing.

One morning she woke early and played for the fishing boats as they left the harbour. Few of them tipped, but she spied appreciative smiles on the faces of the fisherfolk, and that was enough. She began to make a habit of it. When she played, she imagined her father leaving in one of those little boats, fishing nets in hand and a dazzling grin on his face. She ached for him, but it was a good ache; it reminded her of love, real and true and unsullied by betrayal and shame. The kind of love she knew still existed in the world, despite everything. It would not heal her wounds completely, but it would help them scar, and that, too, was enough.

As spring moved into summer, she reconnected with her body. She met a woman with short hair and a heart-shaped face and carefully avoided learning her name. In the quiet of the early morning, they parted, and as she headed to the docks she found herself at peace. Her desires were her own again, not drawn unwittingly out of her by soft touches and liar’s lips. Her instincts were clear. She could give of herself without endangering her heart. A few nights later she met a woman with long ears and green eyes who also gave no name. It was not perfect, but it would do. It was enough.

The summer days were long. She filled them with music, and her basket filled with coin. Some she kept, some she gave to her mother, some she took to the market for supplies. A few she set aside for special occasions, and at the end of one particularly long, hot day, she determined that special occasion would be raspberries. When she returned home, treasure in hand, she decided to continue her evening of indulgence in one of her favourite places. She gathered her violin, cigarettes, notebook, charcoal and the berries, opened the shutters of her bedroom window and climbed to the roof above.

It truly was a beautiful city. Their shop was situated at just the right angle to see all the way from the castle atop the hill to the docks far at the bottom. The setting sun covered the bay in sparkling pink diamonds and turned the rooftops to gold; strings of paper lanterns began to light one by one in the street below. It was as if she could see the whole city donning its finery, preparing itself for a coronation or lavish gala. A soft breeze rustled her hair, making the smoke of her cigarette curl around itself, and she smiled. She loved twilight most of all.

As she watched the seagulls circling lazily over the boats in the harbour, a memory struck her, a familiar wicked voice she had not heard in some time. She had been called an oversized bird, accused of peacocking when she performed, her clothing compared to plumage during mating season. Avian insults had been a particular favourite, for some reason she could not begin to fathom. She opened her notebook. On one page, she sketched a garment bedecked with peacock feathers, a surcoat with a high collar. Her armour. On another, she jotted down the words to the song forming in her mind, about a bird who laughs at the beasts who try to eat her. Her weapon. If she was to be a bird, she would embrace it. She would be as resplendent as the city. A creature not soon forgotten.

She savoured her raspberries, the clove and nutmeg in her cigarette, the salt on the breeze. She opened her case and set the violin under her chin. She had a song to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Title song by Sia.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr at @expressandadmirable for a proper table of contents for the Heroes campaign, commissioned character art, text-based roleplay snippets and more!


End file.
